Who Put the Trash Out?
by iRamble
Summary: It's a simple enough question, but when have the Winchesters lives ever been simple? Dean's acting strangely, and it's up to Sam to figure out why, but that's never been easy either. As Sam tries to get to the bottom of his brothers behaviour, they both end up having to deal with things that neither was ready to confront just yet. - Season 8, pre-Trials - Complete - Family/Drama
1. Part I

Disclaimer: _All characters appearing in Supernatural are copyright Kripke/CW/WB etc. No infringement of these copyrights is intended. This fanfic is my original work of fiction based on those characters/that universe._

 ** _*Spoilers*_** Set Season 8, but pre-trials. Could be read as a missing scene for that season.

 **Who Put the Trash Out?**

 **Part I**

All in all, it started as a good morning, and in Dean's defence, it wasn't the noise he'd been making that had roused Sam from his slumber that day. No, that morning when Sam had initially opened his eyes to greet the day, it had been with the natural waking from sleep that was, in all honesty, a luxury he was still getting used to.

For most of his life, early morning wake up calls had come in the form of either their father giving his standard fifteen minute 'pack-up-we're-heading-out' warning, or from Dean in the motel bed next to him, turning up the radio and being a jerk because he was bored of having woken up earlier than Sam.

The sensation of waking up without aches and pains, without throbbing stiches and borderline concussions, was also a rare indulgence that Sam had previously only briefly enjoyed during his stint in college. Even in the past year or so during his time with Amelia, there had been the residual pains, particularly in his heart, every morning when he awoke, and the knowledge that Dean was gone would hit him anew. Phantom aches impossible to quantify physically, impossible to ignore or heal emotionally.

Before that, outside of Stanford, outside of Amelia, his mornings had held a consistently similar theme, even after their father had left. There were the 'waking up with a stiff neck because he was too awkward and angular to fit perfectly in the impala' mornings, the 'oh my god what the hell is that smell from that pillow I stupidly put my head on last night when I passed out from post hunt fatigue' mornings, and also the 'sorry dude, racoon on the road' swerves that Dean would make without even bothering to hide his smirk mornings, knowing full well they would result in Sam's head slamming into the window. Thrown into the mix for good measure of course, were also the odd waking up with a plastic spoon wedged in his mouth mornings or, on a few occasions, waking up with someone agreeable next to him in a clean bed which wasn't his own, which still felt slightly awkward to him, mornings.

And even if it wasn't any of those, for most mornings (or middle's of the days or nights) when he awoke, it was usually some underlying urgency, some relentless tugging at his conscience that would wake him from the exhausted oblivion he'd succumbed to. Those wake-ups were usually in the middle of a case, and on those occasions, consciousness would return with a sucker-punch of guilt delivered by the knowledge he had slept at all, particularly when there was usually someone's life at stake, if not the whole world to save, yet again.

And then, beyond all of that, there was the sleep itself, which for so many of the hours he'd been captive to it, had been riddled and colonised with nightmares, sometimes to the extent that he'd endeavoured to evade sleep all together. Not that that had ever worked out well for him.

So for all of those multitude of reasons, this type of waking-up, this serene, peaceful, natural awakening from a deep, untroubled sleep, somewhat unfettered consciousness lulling his senses back to full awareness, was a rare and pleasant sensation, one that had him feeling refreshed and revived, as though his whole soul had taken a deep cleansing breath.

For a few moments he revelled in that luxury, lying on his clean linen, head nestled on a plump unstained pillow, thinking of the day ahead, revelling again in the lack of any imminent world ending danger, and let his mind wander to planning his morning routine. Shower, then breakfast of granola or perhaps a smoothie, depending on what supplies they had. Or maybe even, and this was a guilt ridden maybe, maybe even some bacon and sausage and eggs and whatever else Dean might decide to cook up. Oh but if that was the case, he really should go for a run. They hadn't caught a case in what felt like weeks and he thought he could actually feel the fat accumulating inside around his midriff, caused by days spent doing nothing more strenuous than sitting with his laptop. So if he _was_ going to indulge in some fat laden grease-feast, he would at least go for a decent run first.

But before any of that, coffee. Hot, strong, steaming, java-juice. He'd spent so many years relying on that caffeine boost to get him underway, that starting his day without it now was like trying to jumpstart a car without cables. Whether it had been last minute cramming for mid-terms, through the night driving to get to a case, or the habitual reading through dead language lore for research, the caffeine was a constant.

Except that here in the Bunker, the coffee was _so_ much better than the diluted down, dirt-water swill they sometimes had to put up with on the road. Here they had their own coffee machine, a really good coffee machine, and as much as Dean had derided Sam in the past for what he'd called his frat girl mocha-choca-pumpkin-chai-latte-chinos, Sam had seen his brother fiddling with the cappuccino settings, and had then had the decent grace to pretend he hadn't heard Dean's surprised 'hmm' of approval as he'd tasted what the machine had gurgled out andhad even kept his mouth shut when Dean had gone back for more.

He padded his way to the kitchen, mind on coffee while a yawn tugged away at the last remnants of rest from his bones, and a chill from the early hours tingled its way down his spine, a sensation that was oddly pleasant even as he shivered it away.

All in all, a good morning.

Until he heard the noise from the kitchen.

At hearing that sound, he froze, mouth agape in what should have been a last satisfying yawn, now forgotten in an Edvard Munch scream as his senses picked up the noises that shouldn't have been there. At first there was a rustle, as though a giant rat were rummaging through an upturned dumpster. Then a heavy, hollow clunk of something metallic falling to the floor, then more rustling.

His hand reflexively reached for his gun but came away gripping nothing but a handful of flannel and he cursed.

Luxury got you killed. That was what John had taught him. That was what a lifetime of hunting had taught him. And that wasn't just a mantra to get him through days when it seemed all the grapes were nothing but sour and the grass on the other side of the life they couldn't have was oh so much greener.

No, it was the truth. Cold, hard, bitter, truth. Luxury made you soft. It was the reason why victims were victims; because they were pampered, not prepared. He'd spent too long it seemed, living a life removed from hunting, and this was the price. Hunters lived a life lacking in everything but the very basics, that was true, but at least that kept them sharp. At least they knew enough to always have a weapon to hand. What did Sam have? Rubber soled slippers and dubious morning breath. Great. Whatever was there in the kitchen, he'd just smack it with his indoor footwear and breathe on it a few times.

But it didn't matter. Neither he nor Dean needed guns, their father had taught them to be adept with almost every kind of weapon, including their own fists. Both he and Dean were more than capable of holding their own in a bare knuckle brawl, could take a hit and return the favour with twice the force.

He raised his hands, fists balled ready to punch, and took his next steps more cautiously. At least his slipper-clad feet would make no noise, would mask his approach. Small blessings.

He rounded the corner, expecting the worst, ready for a confrontation with some unimaginably monstrous horror dredged up from the darkest depths of hell itself, some vista of pure and utter nightmarish evil.

He wasn't far off.

It was Dean's backside, clad in a blue and white chequered bathrobe, raised in the air as he knelt on all fours next to their kitchen bin, which was lying on its side, with one arm digging around inside, doing… Sam didn't know what. For a moment, Sam simply stood and watched, a morbid kind of confused fascination gluing him in place until he came to his senses.

"Errr… Dean? ...What're you doing?"

Dean half turned, threw Sam a look over his shoulder.

"Finally! You're up… pass me that will ya."

He waved in the vague direction of a small pile of clutter to his left and Sam made his way over uncertainly. After a moments inspection he picked up the two objects nearest to the top of the small mound; an empty beer bottle and an equally empty, slightly dented can of beans. With an item in each hand, he was still none the wiser as he turned to face Dean's backside again.

"Dude… Are you drunk?"

At that Dean sat up, face slightly reddened by whatever it was he'd been doing, an annoyed frown creasing his brow.

"No, I'm not _drunk_." He replied indignantly, snatching the empty bottle from Sam's hand and then, upon seeing what he'd taken from him, giving him another annoyed, defiant scowl.

"Thennnn… what the hell're you doing dude?"

"It's the trash." Dean responded, indicating again distractedly to the pile as he reached into the deep bin and placed the bottle inside with, Sam noticed, far more care than was warranted.

"I can see that… A pile of trash on the kitchen floor… _Which I just cleaned last night! Dude!_ "

"Don't get pissy, you can clean it again when we're done."

" _Dean I'm not…!_ _That's not_ … _!_ " He took a deep calming breath, releasing it slowly. " _Why_ is the trash on the floor? … And what'd'ya mean ' _when we're done'_? Done doing what?"

Dean turned to face him, still looking annoyed, though now Sam was matching that look with his own irritation.

"Haven't you ever wondered where the trash goes?" Dean asked him.

"Where the…!? … _It goes in the trash Dean!_ That's why they call it _trash_ ; there's a clue in the name! Seriously how many beers have you had already?"

Dean ignored him. "I know it goes in the trash, Einstein, but where does it go after that?"

"The land fill? Coney Island? I don't know. Dean why–"

But Dean cut him off. "And how does it get there?"

Sam opened his mouth to respond, but there was a slight dawning of a light turning on in his brain. "Uhm… Garbage trucks… I guess?"

"Uh huh. So answer me this college boy; how does _our_ trash, from the alleged safety of _our_ kitchen, get _into_ those trucks? ...Hmm?" Dean waited, eyebrows raised almost as a challenge, watching as Sam did a fairly accurate goldfish rendition; mouth open, mouth close, mouth open, mouth close. He allowed him one more impression before continuing. "Exactly! And when was the last time either of us put the trash out in bins? Huh? I mean, I know _I_ haven't been doing it. And if you did it I know you'd get all Martha Stewart on my ass for _not_ doing it. And besides, I mean, hell! Do we even _have_ bins?"

"I–"

"And even if we _do_ , I _highly_ doubt our secret, magically warded bunker is listed on the local garbage truck route."

Dean had Sam stumped and they both knew it. And as much as Sam hated to admit it, Dean now had him curious too.

"Look." Dean continued, scowl finally easing now that he'd won, standing and walking over to the kitchen table, rubbing his back as he went. There, on the table top were several large books pinning down equally large unfurled sheets of paper. Sam followed and as he drew closer, saw that they were blue-prints and design sketches. He leant over the table for a closer inspection, eyes narrowing as he examined them.

"Are these…? Is this the _bunker_?... Dean where did you find these?!"

"They were in the archives."

"You were rummaging around in the archive? You? At six in the morning?"

Dean shook his head dismissively. "I couldn't sleep… But that's not the headline. Look." And he pointed to a series of markings on the blue-prints.

Sam peered at the motifs and patterns, was just about ready to squint when Dean shoved a magnifying glass towards him. Through the thickened lens, the images instantly became clearer but clarity as to their meaning, if there was any, still eluded him. After a moments more scrutiny, Sam straightened, admitting defeat.

"What are they?" He asked, turning to Dean, but Dean only shrugged.

"Damned if I know… but they're concentrated here in the kitchen. According to the blue prints anyway."

Sam leaned back over to study them again. "Could be Enochian…. Maybe cuneiform… Or some hybrid… And…. And I think those ones at the end might be runic symbols… but that doesn't make sense." He straightened back up again. "We should scan them, run them through the computer, see what turns up."

"Yeah maybe. But I think I've figured out what they're for."

"OK…. What?"

"The trash dude. It's to get rid of the trash."

Sam wasn't sure if Dean was serious or not, but there was an earnest sort of wide eyed zeal on Dean's face that made Sam pause. Or more specifically, it made Sam pause and worry for his brother's sanity because, if Sam were to assess him right then, at that precise moment Dean looked and sounded like a lunatic. And not your run of the mill Darwin award winning lunatic either. No, more an obsessive compulsive lunatic of the ilk who might for example insist that the government had embedded sensors into toilet rolls to track how frequently you wiped your butt, or that aliens (who were of course real) couldn't read your mind if you lined your sandwiches with relish and wrapped aluminium foil on your head, or that running backwards after a three course meal four times a week would absolutely cure diabetes. Taking all this into account, Sam realised he needed to pick his next words very carefully.

"Soooo…. you're saying you _are_ drunk?" But then again, it was so much more fun to rile Dean up a little every now and then.

It wasn't so much that Dean articulated any particular words per say, more that he emitted a low, dangerous sort of growl, and had Sam been a meeker man he would have feared for his safety right then. But meek or not, Sam still had sense enough to know when to stop prodding the growling, potentially insane, angry bear. Dean was giving Sam one of those looks, a disgusted annoyed glare that shot daggers at him and he kept it going despite Sam's best efforts to avoid all eye contact. It was taking all of Sam's energy to control his features and prevent his lips from curling back into a smile, a mental effort that seemed more taxing than having kept Lucifer at bay.

"So… uh…" He cleared his throat, beatific, guileless innocence plastered on his face as he looked at a spot beyond Dean's shoulder. "Did you manage to find any of the markings?" And he managed to move away from his brother and return to the spot near the bin where he'd originally found Dean crouched on the floor.

Dean made a half 'hmmm' half 'humph' sort of sound that clearly meant he knew that Sam knew that Sam was a jerk, but moved to stand closer to him nonetheless.

"No, as it happens. None of the walls in here are accessible, apart from maybe the one behind the fridge. But that's a bust. I tried moving the thing but it's like it's welded to the spot or made of lead or something. Weighs a tonne."

"So how was the beer bottle gonna help you move it?"

"It wasn't smart-ass. The beer bottle was an experiment. I wanted to see it disappear from the bin."

"Uh huh…. Sure… And did it? Disappear?"

"Gee I don't know Sammy, it's almost like someone started being a jerk and got in the way before I could check."

Sam let that one slide as it was partially true, and moved closer to the bin to check for himself.

He'd definitely seen Dean place the empty beer bottle in there so wondered why he was even humouring Dean like this. He peered inside.

And blinked.

He looked back towards Dean, startled. "It's gone!"

"Son of a….! I _knew_ it! I _told_ you! Didn't I tell you?! I _told_ you!... Damn it! I wanted to see it happen this time…. Damn it!"

Sam straightened up. " _This_ time? Dean, how many times have you done this already?"

Dean looked annoyed again, as if Sam had been focussing on the wrong part of the conversation. "A few… Look the main thing is every time I do, every time I put the trash in there, it disappears. And I have no idea where it's going. I've moved the bin around the room, but wherever I put it, if there's trash in there, it's gone."

"Like, what... It just disappears?" Sam couldn't quite believe it, a small part of him still feeling as though Dean were pulling an elaborate prank. "You're kidding right?"

"Well, why don't you try it for yourself instead of being such a cynical little bitch about it?" Dean reached to the table behind him retrieving the empty bean can that Sam had initially picked up and had then deposited there when he'd begun studying the blue prints. He held it out to him, a petulant expression on his face.

Sam had been too wrapped up initially in mocking Dean and then subsequently too stupefied by the immediate puzzle to have noticed it immediately, but there was definitely something off about Dean. He was unusually crabby and his prickly mood made him uncomfortable to be around. Internally Sam chided himself for having exasperated it with his teasing, as innocent as his motives may have been, but still, Dean's last remark was far more acerbic than what Sam deserved.

He ran a quick assessing glance over his brother and took in all the little things he'd initially missed; Dean's rumpled hair that clearly hadn't seen a comb, his unkempt stubble that was beyond designer, slightly puffy, gritty looking eyes, framed by dark circles that marred skin paler and more tired looking than it should be on alleged 'down-time', all falling together to paint a picture of a Dean who hadn't slept, possibly for a good few days. Dean had all but admitted as much a few minutes ago.

And the biggest give-away was a sudden realisation that struck Sam square in the chest. Whenever they were on a hunt, Dean was the one who awoke first. True, he would wake Sam in usually the most annoying way possible; turning up the radio, flicking dirty socks on his face, pulling his leg till Sam was halfway to falling on the floor. When Sam would be woken like that he'd be, understandably pissed, and Dean would be smug and smirking, making Sam all the more irritated. But what Sam had always overlooked in his annoyance, what perhaps Dean had been forcing Sam to overlook by creating annoyance, was the fact that the Impala had already been packed, that most of their stuff had already been put away, that the shower was free for Sam to use, that Dean had even already brought in coffee and doughnuts. All in all, what Sam had always overlooked, was that Dean had woken up way in advance and done all this without him, allowing Sam to have a lie in. To grab an extra hour or two of sleep. Dean could move very quietly and stealthily when he wanted, a skill he'd honed through years of sneaking around their father as a child, whenever John had returned from a hunt and had passed out on the bed, or was in a mildly drunken stupor, with one finger still on the trigger of his gun. Looking back, Sam realised that the only times Dean ever woke up later than Sam, the only times he had ever allowed himself that luxury, was when they were between hunts.

Like now.

All of this dawned on Sam in an instant and he realised something was actually really quite wrong with Dean for him to have been up and awake, for what seemed like hours already.

But Sam knew better than to query Dean about it, especially while his mood was still so irritable. Instead he simply took the proffered can from his brother. It would be more fruitful, not to mention safer, to wait till Dean simmered down before pursuing the cause of his foul mood and bad sleep.

"Where does it go?" He asked instead, crouching down, can in hand as he looked over his shoulder and waited for Dean's response. "Any particular place?"

Dean shrugged.

"I can think of one place you could shove it…." He mumbled, before continuing more clearly. "But anywhere as long as it's in the bin I guess."

Sam reached as far back as his long limbs allowed, the edge of the bin digging into his shoulder as he strained to gain a few extra inches, before letting go of the can. He pulled back, flexing his arm, rubbing his shoulder, and straightened up to his knees.

"So how does it work? How long do we wait?"

"I don't know. Seems instantaneous, but I've never seen it actually happen." He gave Sam a pointed look, which Sam ignored, turning back instead to check on the can.

It was gone.

Sam let out a ' _whoa_ ' under his breath and sat back on his haunches, head tilting to the side slightly and face creasing into a perplexed frown.

"Told you." Dean snorted, tone still undercut with annoyance.

"Does it only work on trash? Like does it work on regular stuff?"

"Only trash, far as I can tell. But be my guest." Dean waved an arm towards the refrigerator. Sam took the opportunity to try a little side experiment. Of all the things he could take, he went for the brand new pack of un-opened bacon, knowing that it was the last one in the fridge. Dean watched, almost uninterested as Sam placed it in the bin, but didn't say a word. That was highly unnatural and was itself the loudest indicator that there was something wrong with Dean if he was able to let good food go to waste, and bacon no less.

After a moment Sam checked the bin, this time finding that the bacon had not disappeared. "Okaaay. So seems like it only works for trash….. I don't know if that's weirder or makes sense."

"It's weirder. Trust me. Like how does it know what's trash? Whatever _it_ is."

Dean had a point. They continued experimenting with various things, but each time items either disappeared without them being able to see it happen, or else remained unmoved, and each time there was a clear distinction being made, somehow by something, between garbage and not.

"Maybe it's like those Dr Who villains." Sam suggested after a while, unable to keep a hopeful tone from entering his voice, only to be met with Dean's vacant expression. "The weeping angels?" Sam supplied.

Dean continued to stare at him.

"They don't do anything if you're looking at them." Sam elaborated, now slightly annoyed, slightly embarrassed, the colour rising a little in his cheeks.

Dean kept staring at him blankly for a moment before a look, almost tinged with dismay, flitted over his features. "Such a nerd." He shook his head incredulously. "How'd you _ever_ get laid?"

"Whatever dude. Point is, maybe it doesn't work when it's being observed. Like maybe watching it affects it."

"You mean like… like quantum stuff… Like photons and stuff." At Sam's raised eyebrows, Dean clarified. "When you try to see 'em, it changes what you see."

This time it was Sam's turn to assess his brother, but unlike Dean's reaction had been seconds earlier, Sam couldn't help being a little impressed.

"And how does knowing _that_ not make _you_ a nerd!?"

"Coz its science. It's totally legit. Besides," Dean responded unfazed, shouldering past Sam to inspect the bin himself. "Chicks dig science."

He crouched beside his brother and they both peered into the bin.

"What if it's the bin?" Sam asked after a beat. "Like, what if it's nothing to do with the warding at all? What if it's just the bin itself?"

Dean mulled that over for a moment before responding. "All right." He hefted the bin away, replacing it with an empty garbage bag. "In that case this won't be going anywhere then will it." He briefly waggled another article of rubbish in front of them that he'd grabbed from the diminishing trash pile before dropping it in the bag.

For a while, nothing seemed to happen, except that the bag began to slowly deflate and fall back in on itself. A natural and expected enough reaction, except that it momentarily obscured from their view the empty milk carton Dean had placed there. When Dean reached out to straighten the bag however, the carton was gone.

"Damnit! What the hell!?" He growled angrily, glaring at Sam as if Sam were somehow withholding the answer. "This is really starting to piss me off!"

Although Sam was equally intrigued by the mystery now, Dean's reaction was far out of proportion to what was warranted, and Sam found himself frowning, this time from the growing sense of concern for his brother.

But pulling an answer from Dean even when he was happy, let alone when he was like this, was like pulling teeth from a bear; you could ask twenty questions, get yourself mauled half to death, and still be no closer to the root.

He glanced over to the table. "I say we plug those symbols into the computer, see what it churns out."

Dean huffed a despondent response but equally, didn't outright shoot down the idea, so Sam took it as an agreement.

They spent the next hour or so mostly in silence, working through the various sections of the blue prints and schematics, collating segments and scanning them into the oversized, seemingly outdated computers. It was not the kind of work Sam would have thought his older brother would be willing to do, but Dean applied himself with a quiet, single-minded resolve that was in fact, rather perturbing. He was so focused, was so honed to the task, it was as though he were on an actual hunt, and Sam found himself scared to even breath too loudly in his presence, let alone strike up a conversation.

Again, so out of character for Dean, particularly during down-time. If there had been any doubts left in Sam's mind that there was something wrong with Dean, they were all but disintegrating and vanishing fast by the time they'd finished inputting the last of the symbols into the machines.

"What now?" Dean asked.

"Now I guess we wait." Sam didn't know what else his brother expected.

" _We wait_?" Dean responded in an aggressive, almost indignant tone. "How long?" He demanded, asking as if Sam were somehow responsible for the pace at which the machines worked.

"I don't know dude, as long as it takes I guess… Probably a few hours, maybe more." Dean looked ready to retaliate with some angry retort so Sam quickly continued, hoping to offer what would ordinarily have been a tempting diversion. "Look Dean there's nothing we can do for now 'cept wait, so how about we get some breakfast huh? There's that fresh pack of bacon."

Dean turned, shrugging. "You go ahead. I'm not hungry."

"What are you gonna do instead?" Sam called out, following after Dean as he disappeared down the corridor in quick, long strides.

"Check the library, see if there's anything about those symbols I missed."

Dean opting for research over bacon? Oh yes. There was _definitely_ something wrong. Trouble was, Sam had no idea what, and no idea how to figure it out.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/


	2. Part II

**AN:**

 _First part was light, this one gets a bit emo-heavy._

 _Thank you to all who have read, favourited, followed or reviewed (thank you Kathy!). Thanks once again to those who manage/run the Wikis, and to my lovely Beta._

 **Who Put the Trash Out?**

 **Part II**

Sam had followed Dean into the library, and had stood there aimlessly, at a loss for what to do, watching Dean as he'd pulled books off the shelves and stacked them onto the table. After a few more moments of silent and pointless voyeurism, Sam had turned and headed back to the kitchen.

Perhaps the smell of cooking bacon would lure his brother away from this peculiar behaviour. That had been Sam's last hope at least, but when he began gathering the breakfast supplies together, he found that he didn't know how to go about it. Frying bacon and eggs wasn't really difficult, but Dean had a particular way of doing things. Particular pans for particular things, and Sam had never really paid much attention.

"Dude? Which frying pan should I use?" He called out over his shoulder, the reply filtering back down a few seconds later.

"Non-stick for the bacon, black handle for the eggs."

A few moments later, "Dude, what kind of oil do I use?"

"Any, doesn't matter."

"…. Hey Dean? Where's the oil?"

"Second cupboard on the right. Or use butter."

"….we don't have any."

He heard Dean swear followed by his angry stomping footfalls. A few seconds later Dean emerged, bending down to reach into a cupboard (one Sam hadn't checked) to retrieve the oil.

"It's right here. How could you miss it? ... And you're gonna burn the bacon, the flames too high…. And why'd you put the eggs on so soon? Oh for crying out…! Look just move aside."

Sam sidestepped away as Dean jostled in front of the hob and took over, adjusting the heat, pulling more items from the fridge, grabbing pan handles and jiggling a frying pan in each hand.

Sam settled at the dining table, watching as Dean bustled around the stove, every now and then retrieving something from a cupboard or the fridge. Within a few minutes, Dean had whipped up a fresh batch of pancake batter, and had another pan on the go ready for it within minutes. Aside from hunting and driving, this really was one of Dean's fortes. He was in his element in the kitchen, and the effect it had on him, though not instantaneous, became obviously apparent after a while. His shoulders eased up, visibly releasing some of the latent tension they'd been carrying, and he even, after a time, hummed a few disjointed bars of Metallica absentmindedly as he flipped pancakes and stirred the eggs.

"Put some coffee on would ya?" Dean requested over his shoulder, tone more congenial than it had been all morning, and Sam readily obliged. Dean's timing of course, was perfect, because no sooner had the coffee been poured into their mugs and put on the table, than two laden plates were placed in front of Sam, one with bacon, eggs, beans, hash browns and sausages, and the other with a fresh hot stack of pancakes, the butter melting and oozing, ready to mingle with a gluttonous dose of maple syrup to be dribbled on top. Sam kept his mouth shut when Dean sat opposite him with his own two plates, but his stomach rumbled loudly before he'd even picked up his fork, and Dean raised an eyebrow, almost amused.

As usual, Dean's cooking, even on something as simple as this, put all the diners they frequented and everyone else's food to shame. Were those dried herbs in the eggs? Was that fried onion on the beans? Sam couldn't tell, he didn't care, it all worked oh so deliciously well. He often despaired at what his brother ate, but what his brother cooked was another matter, and Sam could happily eat it all day, cholesterol and obesity risks be damned.

They ate the first few mouthfuls in silence, Sam savouring the rich flavours, the contrast between the sweet and salty, the faultless crispy bite of the bacon, the perfect consistency of the perfectly seasoned eggs.

"So," He ventured finally, after his seventh or so mouthful of food, washing it down with a slug of coffee before continuing. "Seriously dude, level with me here. Why are you so bent outta shape about this missing garbage thing?"

"You mean it doesn't bother you there's something going on in our kitchen and we have absolutely no idea what's causing it? Or even, what _it_ is?"

"I don't know man, it's just trash disappearing. Saves us doing it so what's the big deal?"

"What's the big…?!" Dean put his fork down, "Don't you care that we don't know why it's happening? Or where it's going? Or anything?"

"I don't know man, I just… I just don't see the harm."

"Yeah well, we all know how stellar your judgement is." At that comment, spoken almost under Dean's breath, Sam bristled.

"And what the hell's that supposed to mean?" He demanded, feeling his irritation flaring.

"Nothing. Forget it."

"No Dean, you've been acting weird all morning. You've clearly got something to say, so say it. Spit it out."

"I said forget it. Doesn't matter." He pushed his plate away, the remainder of his food left untouched.

Sam frowned. He didn't know what annoyed him more; the fact that Dean could immediately push the exact right buttons to get a rise out from him, or that he _had_ those buttons to begin with, or that he couldn't control the knee-jerk reaction they elicited once pressed. Maybe all the above annoyed him in equal measure, and that annoyed him even more. He sighed. All he'd wanted was for them to have a calm, civilised conversation. Why was that always so hard for them to do?

"Look, Dean," Sam began again, making a concerted effort to infuse his tone with a modicum of calm. "I'm just as curious as you are. I mean, it's freaking weird man, I admit. But I just… I don't get why you're so upset about it, that's all."

"I'm not upset." Dean snapped back.

"Yeah you're the model of happiness." Sam responded despite his efforts, the sarcastic barb escaping him before he could even think to stop himself.

They both sat in silence again, each staring at their plates but neither making any move to eat any more of the food still left there, cooling with each passing second. Finally it was Sam who picked up his fork again, resuming the now tepid meal. It didn't taste as good as it had done a short while ago. Perhaps it was another experiment for the trash heap. Sam was lost in thought when Dean spoke up again, startling him from his reverie.

"It's meant to be the safest place on Earth." He said, so quietly that Sam could have almost believed he hadn't spoken at all.

"What?"

"The Bunker. Isn't that what Larry, whatever his name said?"

"Larry… Larry Ganem?"

"Yeah, Larry. Isn't that what he said? Warded to the hilt, safer than Fort Knox."

"Yeah, maybe something like that. But… Okay. So what?"

"Well if it's true, then why's there trash going missing from our kitchen?" At Sam's shrug and open mouthed head shake of confusion, Dean carried on, annoyance beginning to tinge his voice again. "Where's it going? How's it getting there? I mean like, what? There some kinda supernatural intergalactic sinkhole opening up there? Coz if there is I sure as hell wanna know about it before we get sucked in."

"Are you… Are you being serious right now? … Dean, why the hell would there be a sinkhole in the Bunker? I mean you said it yourself, it's the safest place on Earth."

"No I didn't." Dean corrected quietly. "Larry said it, not me. All I know is, no place is safe. Especially not if there's an exit you can't figure out... It's basic survival skills Sammy; every way out is a way back in… Or d'you forget that one too in your year off with the vet?"

Sam felt himself recoiling in shock at the mention of Amelia and the year he'd spent thinking Dean was dead. Felt the sting from the initial sickening shock of the statement spread outward from his gut, and then felt the residual bruising ache the words had left pulsate through him as the shockwaves subsided. They never really spoke about it, not outright, and this was the closest Dean had come to mentioning it in months. Before he could respond though, Dean stood, pushing the plate further away as he got to his feet.

"I'm gonna head back, see if anything's turned up yet." And with that, he turned on his heels and left, leaving the half eaten breakfast congealing fat in his plate.

Sam didn't know if he had it in him to follow his brother and confront him again. Not right away. For all his loud, angry gruffness, at times Dean could land the most painful of killer blows with the subtlest and slightest of tones. Like he had just then.

Sam pushed the food around on his plate for a while, but discovered he'd completely lost his appetite. One final forkful confirmed this, as he almost gagged on the grease that lined the palate of his mouth in a thick, fatty smear.

He collected their plates and stood at the sink, letting the water run till the steam began to rise in miniature mushroom clouds. He was gritting his teeth he realised after a while, and the steam from the water was now hanging in the air around him like a perma-fog.

Dean always knew exactly how to land a blow, always knew the exact right wrong thing to say. It had dredged up all the conflicting anger and guilt he'd been carrying around since they'd gotten back together. Since he'd gotten Dean back. Everything he'd pushed down and tried to avoid.

Initially there had been a long phase where Sam hadn't been able to look his brother in the eye, not for any significant length of time, because he couldn't bear to see the disappointment in those eyes. And it didn't matter how much Sam told himself he wasn't to blame, that they'd promised each other they wouldn't try to bring each other back that last time, he knew the instant he'd seen Dean standing there, that he should have tried. That Dean felt betrayed that Sam had turned his back on it all. Not just hunting, not just Kevin, not just that life, but _Dean_. Sam had turned his back on _Dean_. That was what had really hurt them both.

For all of Dean's gruffness though, for all his snarky defences and overtly aggressive posturing, Sam realised that Dean had never been one to instigate an argument. In all his life Dean had been, if anything, the pacifier, or the avoider. The pacifier when it came to trying to placate and defuse imminent arguments between John and Sam; the avoider when it came to coming anywhere near having to open up and talk about what was bothering him.

Which was why this had all caught Sam off guard and unawares, springing on him from a blind spot way out past left-field. Dean had hardly mentioned the past year at all, had in fact avoided the subject, as was expected of him, sidestepping every time they seemed to be nearing the conversational territory as if it were littered with landmines and snipers. He was right, it was, and it would do damage to both of them when they eventually had to cross that bridge and enter that place. For once, Sam had been grateful at his brothers outright refusal to talk about emotional baggage; Sam just didn't have it in him yet to face up to his failing. His latest failings on a long, long list of failings.

He'd let his brother stay in Purgatory, fighting for his life, alone and hunted, and if Dean had died in there, if something had gotten the jump on him…. Sam's stomach lurched suddenly at the thought and he almost retched into the sink.

If something had happened to Dean before Dean could make it out, Sam would never have known. Or maybe he'd have found out five, ten, twenty years down the line, and then he would've had to live with the knowledge that his brother had been alive, that he could have saved Dean, that he could have brought him back somehow, but instead he'd turned his back and let him die out there.

Sam gripped the side of the sink, and closed his eyes. The rising steam soaked into his skin infusing him with a warmth he just didn't feel he had inside. It made it hard to breath but he took a deep breath anyway, feeling the pin pricks of dewy water begin to condense and coalesce on his skin, soak into his clothes.

Why would Dean bring that up? It was so unlike him. What was on his mind that would cause him to say a thing like that? Why would he mention that year? Was it always on his mind? Is that what he was constantly thinking about? About the year spent apart. Did he really think it had been easy for Sam? If Dean thought Sam hadn't been hurting, that Sam had gotten over his death, that Sam had found it that easy to simply move on, then Dean was deluded. Dean didn't have a clue.

And what was all this crap about the rubbish, what did that have to do with any of it. Was it just a diversion to occupy his mind? His time? Because he couldn't sleep. And why couldn't he sleep?

Dean's words echoed and bounced around in Sam's head, ricocheting off the multitude of questions his own brain was firing out.

 _All I know is, no place is safe._

Sam felt sick again and he closed his eyes.

 _Especially not if there's an exit you can't figure out... Basic survival skills Sammy;_

He tightened his grip on the porcelain edge, needing that crutch to stay upright on legs that seemed suddenly ill-equipped to support him.

… _. every way out is a way back in._

There was something about that phrase that was off, something Sam couldn't quite pinpoint exactly.

… _. every way out is a way back in._

Why did that sound so wrong?

… _. every way out is a way back in._

… a way _back in._

And it struck Sam in a lightning bolt of understanding. _Back in_ , not simply _in_. It had been such a slight slip of the tongue, a seemingly innocent turn of phrase, but there it was, a jarring clue, right there in front of him.

Dean wasn't worried about where all the trash was _going_ , he was worried that it wasn't a one-way ticket out. Like Purgatory hadn't been. Dean didn't feel safe, in the one place he should. That was why he couldn't sleep, and it was so obvious now that Sam had pieced it together. They'd both suffered nightmares post-Hell; why would post-Purgatory be any different for Dean? And if he was thinking about Purgatory, he must be thinking about how badly Sam had let him down.

Another wave of nausea hit him but this time he knew what to do. Whether he wanted to or not, he had to confront his brother, he had to try and figure out a way to convince him the bunker was safe. That he was safe. That no matter what, Sam wouldn't let him down or abandon him, not this time. Not ever again.

Dean was in the computer room, sat on the floor, surrounded by a pile of books that he'd carried in from the library. They lay strewn around him, open on various pages. In the mind set Sam was in now, they looked like defensive buoys, marking a perimeter no one could cross.

He cleared his throat but Dean didn't look up.

"Purgatory."

He caught the slight flinch in his brother at the mention of that place, but apart from that slight tell, Dean didn't seem to react or move a muscle.

"It's Purgatory right?" Sam persisted, edging closer. "That's what you're thinking about? What's got you…. what's making you–"

"Stop tryina Doctor Phil me Sam." Dean cut him off, not taking his eyes from the book he was scanning. "Ain't nothing to fix."

"I know you're not sleeping Dean. I know you must be having nightmares about that place. I know–"

"You don't know the first thing about it Sam." Dean spat out, this time meeting Sam's gaze with a glare of pure anger. Sam flinched but kept his ground, raising his hands reflexively as if approaching a wild, wounded animal.

"I know man, you're right. I don't. So tell me."

Dean scoffed, looking back at the books. "Yeah right."

"Why not Dean? Come on."

"What the hell do you want me to say about it Sam? Huh?"

"I don't know. Anything you want. Maybe… maybe it'll help to talk about it."

" _To talk about it_?" Dean closed the book and looked back up at him again. "You want me to _talk_ to you about _Purgatory_? All right. Fine. Where d'you want me to start, hmm. How about the freackin' monsters, huh? You wanna hear about those? About how there's creatures there that you couldn't even _begin_ to imagine, not even in your worst nightmares. You wanna hear about that?"

"Dean–"

"Or maybe you wanna hear about how _every single_ one of those sons of bitches is out to kill you. That their one and only purpose for existing in there, the one sole purpose for anything existing in there, is to kill. Relentlessly and endlessly. It's all they're there to do, the only thing they want to do, all the time. Oh and did I mention? They don't sleep. Nothing sleeps. It hunts. You hunt. Or you get hunted, and you die. That's the only time, the only way, you'll ever sleep… But at least I had Benny, so it wasn't all bad. Vampires, like everything else in there 'cept me, don't need to sleep. So at least I could close my eyes once in a while knowing someone had my back."

That stung Sam on a level of hurt he didn't even know he had, the implication needling its way inside like some kind of thorn digging into his heart. Dean didn't seem to notice, seemed to have not realised what he'd said, or perhaps not thought it would mean anything to Sam, which almost made it worse in a way. But Sam couldn't dwell on it right then, instead filing the pain away for later extraction and penance. Right now, it didn't matter if he got hurt, if he had to face the fact that his brother trusted a vampire, a _monster_ , more than he trusted him, and that the reason his brother couldn't sleep, the reason he didn't feel safe, was because he didn't trust Sam to watch out for him, to have his back. Didn't trust Sam enough to be able to let his guard down and close his eyes. No. Sam couldn't allow himself to give in to the knowledge that whatever Dean felt, Dean was justified because Sam had given him no reason to believe any different. What was needed right now was triage, not self-resuscitation.

He tried again to placate him.

"Dean you can sleep. I've got yo–"

"Don't." Dean cut him off, standing up to face him, shaking his head angrily. "Just… just don't. You don't know anything about what Benny and I went through, so don't even try."

"You're right. I know I won't ever know what it was like for you in there, for both of you. But you're out now Dean. You're safe."

" _Safe?_ Right." Dean scoffed again, turning his back on Sam, shaking his head.

Sam took a step closer to his brother, closing the distance between them and reaching out a hand. "Dean–" But Dean spun around before Sam had even laid a finger on him and cut him off before Sam had a chance to finish whatever sentence of platitude he'd been about to offer up.

"No place is safe Sammy. _No place_."

"The Bunker is."

"Really? Why? Because _Larry_ said so? Tell me Sam, how could the Bunker be safe, when even Purgatory wasn't? _Purgatory_ Sam. Made by _God himself_ , to lock up the badass bastards even he was too afraid of to leave on Earth. God's very own hand made lockbox, so you'd think it was impenetrable right? Except it wasn't was it? And if that place, if _Purgatory_ has loopholes and cracks in the security which even _God_ couldn't spot or seal up, tell me, how the hell are we supposed to believe that this Bunker is safe? Just because some guy called Larry said so?"

"Dean I know–"

"And now we find out there's crap going _missing_ from in here and we have no idea _how_? Isn't that how Benny and me got out? Through a crack that no one'd noticed. And cracks go both ways Sammy, so what's stopping something from getting back in? What's stopping _anything_ from getting back in here? Huh? You look me in the eye and say you really believe that we're safe in here, that you would risk your life on it being safe in here."

"I wouldn't." Sam admitted without a beat. "I'd risk my life on knowing we're in here _together_. That we have each other's backs."

"Like you had mine last year? Like you had Kevin's?"

Sam deserved it he supposed, but he couldn't hide his reaction, his emotions playing out on his face before he could compose them any differently, and it was perhaps the obvious pain his words had caused that finally gave Dean reason to pause and take a breath.

"I thought you were dead." Sam said quietly, just barely above a whisper, not sure he trusted his voice to be able to handle even such a simple statement right then, let alone acknowledge the rest of everything he'd abandoned.

"Yeah I know." Dean responded, voice still angry and harsh, but still, a little more tempered than a few seconds ago, a little less vitriolic. "You thought I was dead and we said we wouldn't bring each other back. Whatever man. Forget it."

"No. I thought you were _dead_ Dean."

"I get it."

"No you don't. I didn't know you were in Purgatory Dean, I thought you were _dead_. You think that was easy? You think after everything, _everything_ , we've been through that it was just that easy to face that?"

"I said forg–"

"No Dean!" Sam shouted, angry suddenly. "No! You think I didn't _try_? You think it wasn't on my mind all the damn time? You think I didn't get as far as almost making a deal for you? Coz I did man, I swear I came _this_ close to sealing the deal with a demon, and I didn't even care that I'd go straight to hell. Didn't care. Came this close before I ganked her sorry ass. And you wanna know why Dean? You wanna know why I couldn't go through with it? It wasn't coz I was scared of going back to hell or losing my soul or because we'd said we wouldn't or any of that crap. It was because I thought you were dead and that you'd made it to Heaven Dean. That's where I thought you were. Heaven."

Sam took a shuddering breath as the single word seemed to hang in the air between them, like some kind of bullet frozen in time. It was the first time in a long time, that Dean looked anything other than angry. He looked shocked.

"I thought you were in Heaven man." Sam repeated again, voice shuddering. "I mean, I know that's where you'll always end up, I know that's where you'll end up going. And honestly? After everything, I don't know if I ever will. So I thought you were there and I thought I was never gonna see you again, and it damn near killed me _every damn day_."

"Sam–"

"And I've seen your Heaven Dean, remember? I know it's everything you've always wanted. I know it's… I know the me who's there is some version of me who's never let you down, one who never will. But he doesn't exist down here. Down here, the only version of me you'll get is me. And I know I don't measure up, I know I've screwed up ten times over and we both know it. But that's the version of me you get, not that perfect one you wanted. Down here, I've screwed up. I've let you down, over and over and over again. Hell, even when you died this last time, I thought I was doing the right thing, and turns out I still screwed up, I still let you down. You still think I abandoned you." Sam shook his head, gritting his teeth, biting his tongue, hoping the sharp pain of that would stunt the tears he could feel burning in his eyes.

Dean didn't move, didn't make a sound. He was so pale, paler than before, and seemed shell-shocked, as if Sam had physically struck him. Sam didn't give him much of a chance to say anything, picking up while he felt he still had energy left to say it all.

"I thought about you every damned day man. Every damned day. Hell! I even had a summoning pack ready in the trunk in case I couldn't bear it, had crossroads picked out and marked up wherever I went. First thing I'd do no matter where I was, knew exactly how to get to them. And the _only_ reason I didn't, the _only_ thing that was more unbearable than knowing you were dead and thinking I would probably never, ever, see you again, was knowing that I didn't deserve to have you back. That I didn't deserve to pull you out from Heaven, just because I felt like crap without you here. After all the time I've spent being selfish, this _one_ time I was gonna to do the right thing. I was gonna let you be happy. And if I had to suffer to let you stay there, fine. I was willing to do that. But if you think for a damn second it was _easy_ Dean, if you think I didn't want you back… If you can…. If you can stand there and look at me and think I didn't _care_?..." Sam shook his head, looking away, the combination of anger and pain suddenly overwhelming him to the point where he couldn't face his brother anymore.

He didn't know if Dean took a step towards him, or if anything he'd said to his brother had even gotten through. He suddenly felt so hopelessly defeated that he didn't think anything could fix the mess they were in. If Dean couldn't trust him enough to even be able to sleep, how were they supposed to hunt, to live, hell! To even be brothers again? How was he supposed to climb back from that? Especially when he couldn't prove to his brother any different. He shook his head dejectedly, miserably, feeling the weight of another failure settling onto his shoulders and pushing him down.

He was about to turn and leave when, as if fortuitously prompted by the gods of serendipity and perfect timing, the computers beeped in unison and the tickertape printer spurred to life, churning out a long thin stream of readings.

When Dean didn't make any move to take it, Sam stepped up and tore it off, barely glancing at it as he held it out to his brother. After a pause Dean took it without catching Sam's gaze. For a moment he simply held it, made no effort to read it at all and then, much to Sam's surprise, he scrunched it up and tossed it onto the table.

"What're you doing?" Sam blurted out, finally looking at Dean. But Dean had already moved away and was heading for the door.

"I'm going to bed." Dean said over his shoulder.

"…. _What?_ "

"I'm tired Sam. Feel like I haven't slept in days."

"But… But..." Despite what had felt like his endless outpouring just moments ago, now Sam felt lost for words.

At the doorway, Dean stopped and turned to face him, waiting expectantly for Sam to finish his sentence. Sam shook his head confused and nodded at the crumpled up paper. "Don't you wanna know what it says? I mean after everything… don't you wanna know?"

Dean looked at it for a moment, as if weighing something up before shrugging and shaking his head. "Don't need to anymore I guess… Know everything I need to know." There was the tiniest hint of a look that ghosted over Dean's face, but Sam couldn't catch it quickly enough to read what it could have meant. But there did seem to be a change in Dean, his whole posture seemed to have stood down a little, as if some kind of high alert had just been turned off, and it filtered into the air around him until it seemed some kind of invisible weight was being slowly melted away, even from around Sam.

Dean; ever the climate changer.

"Think I'm just gonna sleep Sammy." Dean sighed out. If he'd had any more to say, it was all lost to a yawn, one so big and deep it seemed to reach down into every muscle in his body. When he was done, his eyes already looked half closed, and when he sighed again deeply, it almost sounded as though he were content. He gave Sam a look, almost a smile, before turning and walking out.

Sam stood staring at the vacant door cavity. He felt better, a little healed, but there was still a big lump in his throat and he had to swallow several times before the pain it caused eased up a little. He didn't know what to say or do, but Dean's voice filtered down from the end of hallway a few seconds later.

"Don't forget to clean the kitchen Sammy." Another yawn. "Think there's some trash on the floor."

It made a snort of laughter ripple through Sam and he bit his lip, suddenly not knowing, or trusting, whether he would laugh out loud or burst out crying. He blinked several times to clear his vision and his eyes came to rest on the crumpled up printout, lying on the table discarded and unread where Dean had casually lobbed it.

After a brief hesitation he picked it up. It was sorely tempting to unfurl it, to unravel the mystery of the disappearing trash, but there was something in Sam that made him not able to do it. He tightened his fist around the paper as he headed back to the kitchen, placing the printout along with the rest of the trash back into the bin. He turned his back on it as he finished doing the breakfast dishes and didn't bother to check whether it had disappeared or not with the rest of the rubbish when he was done.

As he headed to the library with a refilled mug of coffee, ready to find them another case to work on, he realised that there would be nothing on that printout that could change or influence what he felt and knew. It was like Dean had said, he knew everything he needed to know. And he felt better than he had in a long, long time.

All in all, it hadn't been such a bad morning then after all.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/


	3. Post Script

**Who Put the Trash Out?**

 **Post Script**

There was a part of Hell that was removed from the rest. A part that was almost forgotten and deserted, except for the handful of prisoners kept there. Demons and Angels didn't normally end up in the same place, but then this small corner of Hell, wasn't like the rest.

The sheer feeling of abandonment that reeked and dripped from every crevice was enough to render most normal occupants mad, but this place wasn't meant for normal Hellions.

The cries of torture and endless, unrelenting, pain resonated through the desolate, hopeless space, ripping through the walls in shrieks of utter anguish. But all that was echoed back to those ears was the knowledge that there would be no reprieve, no salvation. No one in this place to hear those cries.

And the cries themselves, they were no longer pleas, bargains, protestation for mercy.

No.

The cries had long ago ceased to be anything other than ceaseless, hopeless outlets for the suffering continuously, unimaginably, endlessly, endured.

A being, a deformed, grotesque, gargantuan in stature, lumbered through the space. It was limited in its understanding and purpose. It had not been designed to resonate any empathy or to feel any pity or remorse or any emotion whatsoever. It could have been an automaton, had it not been so grotesque and malformed.

But it was not a prisoner, it was in fact one of the many who served this place to torture and flay and refuel the endless furnace, one from which the fires over which the prisoners turned, endlessly roasting as if on a spit while their flesh was burnt and flayed away, were continuously lit.

It was a monstrous beast, and it could not understand, and it did not care.

Had it the faculty for either of those things, had it the ability to read or any kind of natural urge for curiosity and enquiry, it may have glanced with more than ignorant indifference at the pile of fuel that lay heaped beside the furnace. It may have glanced at the thin white strip of tickertape that stuck out from the near the top of the pile, the white of the paper already tinged brown with dirt and heat. It may have wondered at what it said.

If it had, if it had pulled it from the heap, unravelled it with its thick, stunted digits, and read what it said, it might have been unimpressed, for all that would have been revealed, would have been the details and conditions for spells and wardings. True, they were remarkably well constructed, detailed and watertight to a fault, describing every endless instance in which something could leave a place but how nothing could ever re-enter that way. It described in great detail, how to distinguish, not based on the articles presented, but on the intent of those presenting said articles. And here, perhaps in the greatest feat of ingenuity, it stated what was to become of those articles once they had been deemed worthless in the place from where they originated.

 _Items thus deemed necessary to be removed and considered of ill worth to those herewith present and relinquished with such intent, will be removed to serve as fuel for hells furnace, from which shall be derived torture unimaginable and everlasting, to be unleashed upon those deemed most adversarial and villainous nemesis to the occupants at that time residing in the Safe Bunker of the Men of Letters from whence such articles originated._

The description went on and explained further and could almost have been deemed petty in the faultless and meticulous safeguards it cited as rules for what was deemed worthy of removal, regulations preventing re-entry, and details as to what was to become of removed items.

As it was however, the monstrous creature had no cause nor desire to care for such curiosities. This pile was meant for the furnace it served and the creature fed the flames with it, the tinged white paper burning in an instant, the flames it fuelled burning so hot that not even ash remained.

On the other side, the flames became liquid, molten, flowing into channels that fed it into various sectors.

The four closest were marked out in some ancient and long forgotten script. Had anyone or anything in that place known or wondered as to the meaning of the scrawls, or had the means by which to read the marking, they would have read the names of the occupants, the very same whose screams and cries rang out endlessly through the space. But there was nothing and no one there to read such things, and the markings were dulled and obscured, forgotten and seemingly served no purpose at all in a place where it wouldn't matter what an occupants name had ever been.

Except that it mattered as a point of reference, used by whatever trickery that kept the fires and flames so cleverly and continuously lit. The trickery that provided fresh fuel for the furnace, day after day after day. The trickery that led that fuel to feed channels into those chambers, above which those four names were carved and unread.

The creature heaved another pile into the furnace, as it would do for all eternity, and paid no mind to the cries that rang out from the chambers beyond.

The chambers which were fed by the flames, fuelled by the pile that was always mysteriously replenished.

Chambers above which the scrawled names had never been read, but which read the following none the less.

Azazel. Uriel. Alistair. Zachariah.

\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/

 _The End._

 _Thank you for reading._


End file.
